["C. Ronaldo was stunned for a moment. He looked at Ye Feng, and for the first time, there was no competitive edge in his eyes, but a serious scrutiny, as if he had encountered something he couldn't understand. \"Pay money?\" \"Yes.\" Ye Feng tightened the water bottle cap and draped the towel over his shoulder. \"In the youth teams of Longguo, the starting spots are clearly priced. Thirty thousand, each time.\" C. Ronaldo's brows furrowed, as if he had heard something completely incomprehensible. \"So you came to Manchester United.\" \"So I came to Manchester United.\" The two were silent for a few seconds. C. Ronaldo suddenly stood up and patted Ye Feng on the shoulder. His palms were powerful, his knuckles rough—traces left by countless shots and strength training sessions. \"Then you have to work harder than everyone else.\" C. Ronaldo said, his tone devoid of pity, carrying only a matter-of-fact seriousness. \"Ferguson won't let you play just because of your story. He only looks at strength.\" \"I know.\" The door to the training ground was pushed open. Ferguson walked in, followed by assistant coach Carlos Queiroz. The old man held a document in his hand, his expression as serious as ever, but his pace was a little faster than usual. \"You're both here.\" Ferguson glanced at the two still sitting on the ground, his voice hoarse and clipped. \"Perfect, saves me from having to notify you one by one.\" C. Ronaldo immediately stood up, and Ye Feng followed suit. \"Seven days from now, the first leg of the English League Cup semi-finals.\" Ferguson opened the folder in his hand. \"Home game, Old Trafford. The opponent is Blackburn Rovers.\" He looked up, his gaze shifting from C. Ronaldo to Ye Feng, finally resting on Ye Feng's face. \"You, continue with physical training.\" There was no superfluous nonsense. Ferguson closed the file and turned to leave, his leather shoes making dull thuds on the rubber track of the training ground. Carlos Queiroz nodded at the two and followed quickly. Ye Feng stood where he was, watching Ferguson's back disappear at the training ground entrance. The League Cup semi-finals. That was the ticket to the final. Blackburn Rovers, a team known for physical confrontation; their defensive players were famous in the Premier League for being fierce. Lucas Neill, Andy Todd—each one was a tough character capable of leaving strikers covered in bruises after the match. Ye Feng looked down at his own arms. This body had excellent talent, but in terms of muscle density and physical intensity, it was still far from the standard of the Premier League. The Ronaldinho template gave him magical ball control and creativity, but that was in La Liga, in an era that still allowed technical players to dance elegantly. The Premier League wasn't like that. Every inch of turf here was a battlefield, and every touch of the ball was accompanied by a collision. \"Physical training.\" Ye Feng repeated Ferguson's words. He had to train his physical fitness like crazy, otherwise, he wouldn't be able to stand his ground in the Premier League. Ye Feng turned and walked toward the depths of the training ground. His steps were steady, but his mind was already spinning wildly. Blackburn Rovers played the most typical old-school English football. Ye Feng remembered that team. High-intensity physical confrontation, endless aerial bombardment, and tackles so fierce they were almost barbaric. To gain a foothold in the Premier League, having technique alone wasn't enough. Ye Feng walked to the physical training area, which was filled with various equipment: tires, resistance parachutes, medicine balls, and a physical monitoring system imported from the United States. Carlos Queiroz was already waiting there. The Portugal assistant coach held a training plan in his hand, his expression always stern: \"Sir Alex Ferguson asked me to supervise you personally. For the next seven days, your training volume will be 1.5 times that of the other players.\" \"Understood.\" \"You might vomit.\" Carlos Queiroz's tone was flat, as if stating a fact. \"I've vomited many times.\" Ye Feng replied. Carlos Queiroz looked at him, a flicker of imperceptible approval passing through those deep-set eyes. Training began. The first item was strength confrontation. Carlos Queiroz called over two young defenders from the reserve team, big guys standing 1.85 meters tall, with muscles as solid as two walls. The rules were simple: Ye Feng had to protect the ball under their close-marking pressure and hold on for ten seconds without being dispossessed. The first attempt. As soon as Ye Feng received the ball, a defender slammed into him with his shoulder. The force of that impact was far beyond his expectations; Ye Feng was knocked two steps sideways, and he lost the ball. \"Again.\" Carlos Queiroz said expressionlessly. The second time. Ye Feng lowered his center of gravity, knees slightly bent, and turned his body to absorb the force at the moment the opponent slammed into him. This technique was muscle memory from the Ronaldinho template. In Barcelona, the Brazilian often used this method to counter the fierce defenders of La Liga. But the physical intensity of the Premier League was completely different. The defender's strength was like a small-caliber cannonball. Although Ye Feng dissipated part of the impact, he was still knocked staggering, and the ball was poked away again. \"Your core strength is insufficient.\" Carlos Queiroz wrote a few notes on his clipboard. \"During confrontation, the source of power is in the waist and abdomen. Your waist and abdomen are like a twig.\" Ye Feng gritted his teeth and stood up for the third time. This time, he lowered his center of gravity even further, his feet standing almost shoulder-width apart. The moment the defender slammed into him, he took a sharp breath, his abdominal muscles tightening like iron. The dull thud of the impact echoed across the training ground. Ye Feng's body swayed, but he didn't move. His feet were firmly planted in place. With the inside of his foot, he gently nudged the ball, dodging the second defender's tackle, and then passed the ball out. Carlos Queiroz raised his eyelids: \"Held it for six seconds. Continue.\" After three hours of physical training, Ye Feng knelt on the ground and vomited. It felt like someone had stuffed a ball of burning cotton into his stomach; every cough brought a burning sensation. Sweat dripped from his hair, staining the rubber track with dark spots. The sky had already darkened. The floodlights at Carrington Training Ground turned on, the pale light hitting the turf, illuminating everything with a cold, lifeless glow. But training wasn't over yet. Carlos Queiroz put away the clipboard and switched to a pair of boxing mitts: \"Speed and endurance training. 30-meter shuttle sprints, ten consecutive sets, with 15 seconds of rest between each set.\" \"Wait.\" A voice came from behind. C. Ronaldo hadn't left yet. He had changed into a clean training kit, but he was still covered in sweat. Clearly, he had been doing extra training on another pitch for two hours. \"Mr. Queiroz, I'll train with him.\" C. Ronaldo walked to Ye Feng's side and handed him a water bottle. \"Drink some water, don't get dehydrated.\" Ye Feng took the water bottle, unscrewed the cap, and gulped down a few mouthfuls. C. Ronaldo watched his disheveled state, neither mocking nor pitying him. He just loosened his shoulders and stood at the starting line for the shuttle runs: \"When I was in Lisbon, my coach once taught me a phrase.\" \"What phrase?\" \"Talent is given by God, but the body is built by oneself.\" After saying this, C. Ronaldo's mouth curled into an arc. \"You have great talent, but your body is far worse than mine. For that reason alone, I can't let you slack off.\" Ye Feng stood up, threw the water bottle to the side of the field, and stood next to C. Ronaldo. The two looked at each other. Carlos Queiroz blew the whistle. Two figures shot out like arrows from a bow, one after the other. C. Ronaldo's explosive power was clearly stronger; he could create a gap in the first three steps. But Ye Feng's stride frequency was extremely fast, and he began to gradually catch up after 20 meters. The two finished the first shuttle run almost simultaneously, standing back at the starting line, panting heavily. \"You, your speed is not bad...\" C. Ronaldo said, panting. \"Cut the crap... next set.\" In the intervals between the ten consecutive shuttle sprints, the system's voice rang in Ye Feng's mind. 【Main Mission Activated: The Strongest Newcomer in the Premier League】 【Mission Objective: Win the 2002-2003 Premier League title, and create five goals in the decisive match.】 【Mission Reward: Random Football Legend Template】"]
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